


This is what a real man looks like

by KhadaVengean



Series: Beyond the Earth, Beyond the Sky [4]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Character Death, Character Study, Established Relationship, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Fluff and Angst, Funerals, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Past Abuse, Relationship Study, Swear Words, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25202629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KhadaVengean/pseuds/KhadaVengean
Summary: He was born with a crest. Miklan wasn't. It was the only reason why he was favored and his brother turned out to be the person he became.When Sylvain becomes a father on his own, he realizes that things are not as easy as he thought to be.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Sylvain Jose Gautier's Father
Series: Beyond the Earth, Beyond the Sky [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856056
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	This is what a real man looks like

**Author's Note:**

> Started Azure Moon for the third time. I'm in the same month as the mission with Miklan. Wish me luck.
> 
> A couple of notes:
> 
> \- This is the first time I wrote something in present tense. I hope it turned out alrightish.  
> \- This mentions past abuse and attempted murder, also seperation between family members and death threats. It's some heavy stuff and I tried my best to deliver it correctly. But it's my first time to write something like that (I love angst, but I never wrote anything close like this)  
> \- If anyone is triggered by these events, please turn around, since it's not my intention to trigger anything. I never went through any similar experience so I'm only an outsider trying to get a perspective for this.
> 
> M rated for past abuse (no sht Sherlock) and mentions of smut.
> 
> I hope you enjoy and I'm happy about all kinds of criticism. 
> 
> English is not my first language. Please be aware of that.

Sylvain names his first daughter Johanna Lia Gautier and she easily becomes his pride and joy. Small with a red tuft of hair on her round head and with bluish eyes that betrayed a hint of green. A happy child with the smile of her father.

The maids whisper that she inherited her father’s charm and Sylvain grins at them with his daughter in his arms. The girl mirrors her papa and two identical smiles let Ingrid roll her eyes at their mischief.

She easily becomes the main attraction for all maids and soldiers around the manor of House Gautier. There is only a small number of people who are not dying to see the little girl and only a the smallest number of people don’t melt at her smile and her joyful attitude.

It is true – after nine months of joyful preparation and hopeful imagination, the daughter of Sylvain and Ingrid Gautier is probably one of the brightest stars in the night sky after the war. She takes the hearts of her uncles and aunts by force and all of them, hardened warriors, are incapable to resist her.

Once, it went so far that both the Duke and Duchess Fraldarius were glaring at each other of who was allowed to hold the girl in their arms.

Sylvain grins and thanks the goddess for his family.

And at the same time, he curses her for the man in front of him and his words that are filled with venom and poison.

“She bears no crest, Sylvain.” His father’s eyes glared with a hard edge at his granddaughter and his lips were drawn to a snarl. “I truly hope you intent to have another child after her.”

It is none of his business. Sylvain knows that – looking back at his father with a stare that was so unused, but the former Margrave Gautier remains a master in the art of looking someone in the ground. He had enough practice with Miklan, after all.

“She may bear no crest,” he says, “but she is still your granddaughter.”

The look says enough. He doesn’t care, he’s not interested. She may be his daughter, a little girl of only four moons, but as long as she bears no crest, she is of no worth to him. He rolls his eyes when she laughs, he forms his mouth into a snarl when she moves in his arms, he looks at her in disinterest when she plays with his fingers and he doesn’t look at her at all when she’s asleep.

Johanna Lia Gautier may be his daughter in name and blood, but not in his eyes. Her grandfather would cast her away if he had the chance.

And the sole realization lets old memories come back of the one he wished to have finally buried.

* * *

“He’s doing the same to Johanna as he did to Miklan.” The wine in his throat is one of the sweetest you can purchase on the market in Gautier territory, but it tastes horribly in his mouth. Yet, Sylvain needs the intoxication. He needs the feeling of having a weightless head or it'd crush him underneath its burden. “She bears no crest and now he wants to discard her, just like that.” He gestures to the side and he hears how some drops land on the floor beneath them. A splash echoes through their living room.

“Sylvain.” Ingrid steps to him, pulls the glass out of his hand and he feels her hands cupping his cheeks. "Listen to me.”

“He only complains about it. Having a crest is the most important thing in life and if someone is going do die, it doesn’t matter. I guess having that blasted thing is more important than human lives. Sold out his own son and let him die, got turned into a demonic beast and over ten years later, there is still no change. And now he wants to throw his own granddaughter away, a girl who is only four moons old. His own flesh and blood.”

Ingrid stands right in front of him, her green eyes looking so caring and compassionate that it hits him deep. The margrave feels the tears forming in his eyes and he leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. “Why, Ingrid. She is our daughter, our girl and she is the sweetest thing on earth. “ He hiccups behind his hands. “Why does someone need a crest to be worthy of something? Why does it dictate our lives so much? Why?” He shakes his head and lets out a sob when Ingrid puts her arms around his shoulders and pulls him into her chest. “She is our everything. She is everything I’ve ever wished for. She is nothing but perfect and my old man just needs to destroy this once again. He abandoned his own son just because he didn’t bear one.”

He feels her hand in his hair, combing through his strands and a kiss on his forehead. “Sylvain.” Her voice rumbles through her chest and goes over to his own body. “Your father is a part of the past. We need to look into the future, to fight for it. We fought five years to ensure that we can have one and I will not allow anyone to stand in our way.” The vibration from her voice feels like a thunder, ready to strike and she pulls away and cups his cheeks. He sees the look of sadness in her own eyes and he has the urge to bite down the lump in his throat. “Both our fathers were fixated on our crests. And they still are. But we are different. We were raised in the belief that we need crests to keep on living, that they are necessary for us. But we met people who have done so many incredible things without one.” Her thumbs run over his cheekbones. “We can change this. We can do something to ease this situation. And we will.” A second kiss on his forehead and the thunder rumbles away and the one thing left is the sun with her warmth on his forehead. “You are not your father.”

His breath hitches and he cups her hands.

“You are going to be the best father Johanna can ever imagine. You will carry her on your hands and she will love you, unconditionally. You will not judge her by her lack of a crest, you will accept her as her own person. I will do the same.” She leans her forehead against his. “Okay?”

A sniffle escaped him and the wine makes his head feel light. The smiles comes easily to him and he wraps his arms around her waist. “What would I do without you?” He presses his lips against her stomach, buries his face in her soft tummy. “Don’t say anything. We both know the answer.”

“You’re too harsh on yourself.”

“Nah, I think I’m realistic.” A chuckle of his throat and Ingrid clicks her tongue in a kinda-annoyed manner. “But, Ingrid?”

“Yes?”

“I love you. Just like I love our girl.” He grabs her hands, presses a kiss against her left palm and intertwined their fingers. “Don’t forget that.”

Ingrid leans forward. Straddled his lap and kisses him on the lips without an ounce of hesitation.

* * *

Two years later, the light that greets his second daughter is a lit candle at the bedside of her mother. During the late afternoon, a maid has stumbled into his talks with Felix and declared with hushed whisper that the Margravine has just entered her second labor.

In the middle of the night, Sylvain has been woken by the nursemaid with a gentle hand on his shoulder, Johanna on his lap, telling him of the news that his second child is a girl with the hair of her mother and the same adorableness as her sister.

They decide on the name Freya Estelle Gautier. And just like her sister, she becomes his greatest treasure in no time. She conquers his heart as quick as Johanna and with her smile, she snatches all possible dark thoughts away.

But history likes to repeat itself and the dark lines in his father’s face become more prominent over the years. The corners of his lips are constantly pulled down, his eyes two narrow slits and the look of condescension a permanent feature in his eyes.

“Another child and still no crest,” his father snarls and Sylvain feels how Johanna looks at him with her big green eyes and leans over his left arm to look at her little sister. “When will our family finally have an heir worthy of our blood?”

“Worthy of our bloodline?” He needs to command his own voice to be calm. But he can’t resist the snarky tone that hides in his own voice. “I guess becoming a demonic beast is the only thing that is worthy of your treatment, _father.”_

Father and Son look at each other; a battle of power. But the father is too old and the son bears too much pain. Sylvain knows that.

Without a moment of hesitation, he holds Freya close to his chest and reaches for his oldest’ hand and they leave the quarters of his father with silence weighing them down. His second makes a sound similar to a frog in his arm and Johanna tugs on his hand. “Papa?”

“Yes, princess?”

“I love you.”

A head of red hair, reaching her shoulders. An elegant nose, big green eyes, a round face. Her father feels how a smile tugs at the corners of his lips and he crouches down, put his other arm around her shoulder and kisses her forehead. “I love you too.” His free hand cups her cheek. “No matter what happens. No matter if you have one or not.” And the heavy weight finds its way once more into his voice. “I love you so much.”

Two tiny hands reciprocate his gesture and he sees how his daughter’s smile lights up the whole floor. “Smile, papa.” And she demonstrates by showing a grin as bright as the sun.

He pulls her close to his chest. With both daughters in his arms and Sylvain wonders how two such perfect girls can exist in this world.

His mother dies during the cold of the Ethereal Moon, close to Johanna’s fourth birthday. Her hands are cold when he reaches for them the last time in his life and he mumbles a prayer for her in the afterlife, wishes for her to look into the face of her oldest son and speak the apology Miklan truly deserved from them.

While Freya is too young to truly grasp the concept of death and he explains to her that she her grandma has left this place to take a place by the goddess’s side to find peace. The big brown eyes of his daughter – his eyes – are widened and she clutches the fabric of his pants with her small hands as asks him if her grandma is in pain and if she’s happy.

“Yes, she is happy. Look up there.” He shows her the sight of the dark night sky with dozens of stars twinkling on the black surface. “Up there, she is a star and whenever you can see them, she will watch over you.”

Freya puts her arms around his neck and he lifts her, holding her close to his chest. He wishes his mother safe travels and a destination in which she could make up for all the mistakes she has done.

The funeral is a quiet affair. Both he and Ingrid make the preparations and they are also the one who express their gratitude when they receive condolences. Letters from all over Faerghus reach their home with greetings from their former classmates. Felix and Annette, who live closest to their territory, don’t hesitate to pay them a visit and offer their support for the event. Despite the sad atmosphere, both Johanna and Freya started to smile when they spotted their uncle and aunt. Their sons make for great playmates and when the adults are sitting around a table, their children are playing tag or hide and seek in the snow.

His father is nowhere to be seen during the event. He doesn’t say farewell to his wife, doesn’t interact with his son and his daughter-in-law and doesn’t respond to his granddaughter when she acted on the wish to bring him some cookies that their nanny baked for them.

Former Margrave Gautier makes himself rare and Sylvain harbors an old and known feeling through his chest. He was not interested in the fate of his oldest son and after all those years, he didn’t even have courtesy to speak his goodbye to the woman he had married. The woman who had given birth to his crest baby.

An hour before the ceremony begins, Sylvain retches into his chamber pot. From outside of the window, he hears his daughters laugh while they played with Celio and Albert Fraldarius. Annette’s calming voice and Ingrid’s strong organ echoes through the gardens.

The door to his chamber opens and Sylvain doesn’t need to lift his head to know who just entered. A weight let the mattress succumb. “Don’t think too much about it.”

A snort escapes his mouth and a couple of tears managed to flee through his lids. He wipes them away. “I guess.”

“After all the things your old man have pulled through, I’m not surprised in the least that he manages to dishonor your mother’s death like that.” Felix mirrors his actions – he leans forward, places his elbows on his knees and looks at him from underneath his blue bangs. “Don’t let it get to you. I know it’s difficult, but you shouldn’t let this hinder the respect you want to pay to your mother.”

“I know.” Sylvain hides his face inside his hands and lets out a deep sigh. “You’re right.”

“Then get up.” He demonstrated by rising from his seat and reaching out his hand.

Sylvain stares at him and despite the weight on his shoulders, he manages to grin. “Aw, I’m really honored, Fe, but don’t you think that’s a little bit-”

His hand was used for something else. A dull pain blooms through his head and he cries out with a cry. “ _Ouch,_ Felix-”

“Get your ass up. You don’t have all day.”

And without another word, the Duke turns on his heels and leaves his chamber. Sylvain looks at the windows, hears another echo of his daughters’ laughs. He rises and tugs on his black vest and checks his face in the mirror. It was the face of Margrave Gautier, heir to his house and father of two girls. 

The relief of not looking like his father was immense.

He leaves the chamber and joins his and his best friend’s family outside. Together, all of them clad in black, made themselves on the way to the cathedral that stands on their ground.

He stands in front of the crowd as her only son and the speech he delivered is both the truest and most deceiving.

“My mother was a woman who wanted nothing but the best for her family. Her first priority was for the House of Gautier to keep its pride and glory. She never hesitated to follow the things she believed in and she is proud to see all of us here, to speak out our farewells.”

He catches Freya’s eyes. Sitting on her mother’s lap and hiding her face in her arms, she sniffles and big brown eyes were red around the corners.

Ingrid smiles at him. He smiles back. A motion so uncharacteristic for a funeral, but the only thing that will keep him going.

He lets his shoulders fall. Bows in front of the crowd and motioned to the priest to keep on going. He takes his seat next to his wife and he feels her hand around his.

He squeezes back.

His father doesn’t show up. The people are confused, looking around the entire room and he saw the surprise on their faces.

When they ask about his whereabouts, Sylvain says nothing.

He is done lying for him. Done for standing in his spot. Done with everything.

The funeral passes and he wipes the tears of his daughters away and tells them the same thing over and over again. Their mother is a star who watches them every night.

The thought seems to bring them comfort for their sniffle quieten and their hiccups grow smaller.

“Papa? Where is grandpa?”

Johanna had her hands folded in her lap, her legs kicking back and forth. She looks at him with her big green eyes and just like her mother, he has the feeling that she sees right through him. He cannot lie and he will not.

“I don’t know.”

“Did grandpa not like grandma?”

He notices how Ingrid looks at him from afar with a sleeping Freya on her hip and he nods at her. She mirrors his action and guides Felix, Annette and their kids back to the manor.

The wind is a soft breeze on his cheeks and a tender reminder that winter is in full bloom. He crouches in front of her, his dark boots sinking into the snow beneath them. “I don’t know, Johanna.” He ruffles his hair. “I really don’t know.”

She is silent for a moment. Looks at him with those piercing eyes, steps forward and wraps her arms around his neck. “Is grandma happy?”

He huffs and presses a kiss against her temple. “I’m sure she is.”

“Then I’m happy too.”

* * *

He knocks at the door to his quarters and waits. A minute, five, ten, fifteen. In the middle of the night, the floor was only lit by a few torches, spending their light into this darkness.

“Father? It’s me.” Nothing, no answer. Only silence echoing through the space around him. “Sylvain.” Still no answer. He grabs the doorknob and is confronted with resistance.

It is locked. And he feels how his patience snaps like a rubber band. “So this is like you want to end things?”

The memories come back. He sees Miklan’s face, the demonic beast he became, the red glow of the crest stone, the lance of ruin in his own hands. The weapon he wielded during the war. The one that his father asked him to retrieve because it belonged into the hands of House Gautier.

“First you cast your own son out because he didn’t bear a crest, then you decide to dump all your responsibilities and duties on me because I married and now your own wife is dead and you don’t even have the courtesy to say goodbye to her?” A huff of something old escaped his lips. “You don’t want to see your granddaughters because they bear no crests. Those two who want nothing but to talk to you and the only thing you have left for them is silence. Is that really the way you want to let this end?”

And when silence comes as answer and absolutely no noise escapes from the other side of the door, Sylvain realizes something for the first time.

He has always been aware of the fact that his father and him are two different persons. With different views on life, two different way to act through grief. They are complete opposites.

This door was the living proof of that difference.

“Let me tell you something, father.” His voice has never felt so cold. “If you don’t show up tomorrow and say your farewell to your wife, I will not hesitate to throw you out.” He turns on his heels. “I will expect you tomorrow morning.”

He leaves the quarters of his father with a weird void filling his chest.

* * *

“Did you really mean what you said to him?”

Sylvain looks up, rises his head from his pillow and looks at the golden head of Ingrid, resting on his chest with her hand directly over his heart. “I do.” His grip around shoulders tightens. “I’m sick of him doing all the things he wants without getting away. It’s wrong and it shouldn’t happen without proper payback.”

Ingrid says nothing for a while. For a moment, he thinks she has fallen asleep or he has just been imagining this whole discussion. He closes his eyes, prepares himself to drift of to the land of dreams until her voice, even quieter than before, reaches his ears. “He is still your father, Sylvain,” she mumbles and she lifts her head from his chest, her blonde hair falling past her bare shoulders.

“And? Just because he’s my father doesn’t mean that he can keep on acting out his sick view of the world.” He lets out a deep sigh and holds Ingrid with both of his arms, pulling her closer and putting his chin on her head. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Ever since we have Johanna, I can’t stop remembering Miklan.”

She rubs her cheek against his chest and breathes silently. She has been there with him – offering him her shoulder, letting him cry into the crook of her neck and embracing him. He has shed his tears and maybe even thought that the whole story with his brother has been over.

“People are not born villains. Of course there are people who are just downright evil and enjoy torturing others. But the majority of them become them because of their circumstances. They are forced into this role without any exit because they don’t see one. In many families, this keeps happening like a circle – you can say I’m the lucky one that I bore a crest and my father didn’t hate me.” He pressed his lips against her head in a silent kiss. “I just wonder when this whole thing with the crests started to lose control. When crests became more important than human lives.”

Ingrid props her chin on his chest, lets her hands wander upwards and cups his cheeks. She looks at him with a fierce and also tired look in her eyes and he breathed out deeply. “I’m not the only one.”

“I hated my father sometimes for the things he did. I know he had the best things in mind and he also didn’t truly want to do it. But the needs of the people in Galatea were more important and it was his duty as count to make sure that they are doing better.” She gets closer, straddling his waist with no effort and rubs her thumbs across his cheeks. “I was prepared to accept my fate and act on it. Marry someone out of prestige and money and not out of love.”

“We really did hit two birds with one stone.” He grins at her and she rolls her eyes, but smiles nonetheless. “I married the love of my life and you married a dashing young noble-”

She pinches his nose and chuckles. “Look where the world has brought us.”

His hands leave her shoulders and cups her hips instead, pulling her closer against his pelvis. “Just where I want to be,” he mumbles against her neck and kisses her.

* * *

On the next morning, a servant approaches him. “Lord Gautier, Lady Gautier.” She bowed in front of the couple. “I’ve wished to inform you that your father has just taken in his breakfast.”

His eyebrows have a life on their own. “I see. Thank you.”

The young woman bowed once more and leaves them. Sylvain turns and looks at his wife. “I will check on him. See what he wants to say.”

“Of course.” Ingrid reaches for his hand and her warmth seeps right through his skin. “Be careful. If anything happens-”

“I know where to find you.” He kisses her, a short peck and embraces her around her waist. “Thanks Ing.”

“You’re welcome.” They exchange a last smile and he turns around and aims for the quarters of his father.

He encounters several maids and servants, all of them bearing a look of nervousness and looking away. They merely bowed, spoke their greetings and all of them looking like that lets a lump form in his stomach, as heavy as lead.

And only a couple of minutes later, he knows exactly why.

A maid, one of the oldest in the castle runs towards him, shock and fear and confusion on her face. “Lord Sylvain, thank the goddess you’re here. Please, you must come quickly-”

“What happened?!”

“Your father, he-”

Something interrupts her words. A cry. A scream. Hiccups and a broken voice.

Sylvain needs to become deaf to not recognize that voice. Fear and fury let his sensors heightened, becoming sharper and he began to run towards the source of his daughter’s screams.

The source is the same as the entry to his father’s domain. Multiple servants are standing in front of the doors, their hands clapsed together. One of them is even bleeding from the temple.

“Lord Sylvain-”

“Your father-”

“Please, we beg of you-”

“Get my wife!” His tone was icy cold. “Look for my oldest daughter and bring her to my chamber. If she asks, tell her I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. You,” he orders and looks at the servant with the bloody temple, “get this patched up. The rest of you is dismissed, return to your quarters!”

Mumbles and they follow his orders immediately.

Sylvain looks forward, enters the room and he stands on his spot. Stares at the sight ahead of him and his heart stops beating for a mere second.

His father, former Margrave Gautier, one of the most powerful nobles in all of Fodlan, merely beat my House Fraldarius in terms of prestige and influence, is standing in front of a broken table. Glass shards are littered across the floor and the rug, specks of blood on the pristine surface and dripping from his hand. He is a mess; his gray hair dishelevled, his cheeks sunken in, bags underneath his eyelids and his pupils so small that the red veins inside the white of his eyes became even more prominent.

_He could see him – Miklan, Miklan, Miklan, lying on the floor with a red mark on his cheek and staring at his father filled with fear. “You are nothing but a disappointment. Nobody here needs you, nobody wants you, you useless child. You have one duty and you failed!”_

“ _I’m sorry, Miklan, I’m sorry, Miklan, I’m sorry, Miklan, I’m sorry, Miklan, please don’t hurt me, I’m sorry, it hurts, leave me alone, I wish I could help you, I wish you could have it, I don’t want it, I don’t need it, I’m sorry, Miklan, I’m sorry, Miklan, I’m sorry, Miklan, I’m sorry, Miklan. Please. Someone._

_"Help me.”_

His heartbeat starts to work again and Sylvain’s eyes fall on the other person in the room. Screaming and crying and hiccuping and on her knees, her face hidden in her arms and her blonde hair cut unevenly.

Freya.

“You insolent-”

“Stop!” Sylvain sprints forward, glass shards crunching under his boots and with deft hands, he grabs the wrists of his father, getting the big glass shard out of his hand and let it clutter across the floor, hitting the window in a far corner. He steps on his foot and with a scream that awoke something so deep and primal inside his heart, Sylvain throws the man to the side, letting him hit the floor. Something cracks.

His father screams, his daughter screams and Sylvain turns around and grabs his daughter in one motion. Two small arms wrap themselves around his neck, holding tight enough to cut of all his oxygen and pressing her small body against his chest. “Papa! Papa!” Her screams are cutting right through his ears, into his heart and he holds her so close that they not even a piece of paper could fit between them.

“It’s alright, I’m here, Papa’s here, Freya. Everything is going to be okay, he’s not going to hurt you any longer. Don’t worry, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” he whispers into her ear. Her cries subside slowly, sniffling and she shivers in his arms.

“This child-”

His father’s voice echoed through the room. A voice filled with venom, hatred, bitterness. And Sylvain was fed up. The patience snapped finally and the last drop filled the barrel.

“Silence, old man!” His daughter winced and small fingers buried themselves into the fabric of his tunic. “Are you completely out of your mind?! You dare to hurt your granddaughter, you idiot!”

“She is not my granddaughter, she is no child of mine!” His father groans back, lying on his side and his amber eyes stared at the girl in his arms with so much hatred and Sylvain’s only wish is to scratch them out. For good, this time. “She doesn’t bear no crest, she is not worthy of me-”

“This is all you can fucking think about?!” His voice becomes louder, louder, _louder,_ hitting the window and letting it rumble dangerously. “My daughter doesn’t bear a crest and that’s a reason for you cast her away?! You already lost a son to that sick mindset of yours and now you hurt my own daughter for this sick head of yours?! Are you completely out of your mind?!”

“I don’t have a second son, you are my only heir!”

“Want me to tell you something, asshole?!” He whirls into his direction, clutches the girl close to his chest and he cups the back of her head. Uneven hair, golden and soft and _beautiful,_ and it lets the fire rage inside of him without an end in sight. “Your son’s name was Miklan and he died because you cast him out. You sent him right into his doom without thinking about it for a second because the only thing you care about is this stupid crest!" The poison and bitterness began to grow into a full bloom and he felt the corners of his lips rising, nearly baring his teeth. "Guess you weren’t good enough to bear a major one, isn’t that right, _Margrave Gautier_?!”

Young amber and old amber met each other in a clash of rage and fury, old wounds opening themselves once more.

Hurried steps approached closer. “Sylvain, what happened-”

Ingrid’s voice was cut short by a gasp. Sylvain turns his head over his shoulder and looks into her green eyes, widened with shock, but that motion quickly passed. She sees their daughter's blonde hair, her strands cut unevenly. And upon this discovery, they share the sentiment.

She looks as though she is ready to tear everything apart.

“It is your fault!”

They both look at his father, his daughter’s grip becoming even stronger and a thought manages to sneak right into his head.

“It is your fault for not bearing an heir with a crest! You should have married that boy from Fraldarius – their chances are better of getting an heir! It is your fault, your fault- You only had one job, one purpose to marry my son and you failed-”

Sylvain’s entire world was put into silence. His father’s voice disappeared, his daughter’s sniffles became a far away sound and Ingrid’s small gasp was erased.

Enough is enough. The barrel is overflowing.

“Ingrid.” He approaches her and shushes when she opens her mouth. “Trust me, okay?”

Her hands are clenched into fists, the fierceness in her eyes a sight he loves so dearly. And he is grateful for it. It encourages him in his thoughts, in his wishes. “Take over Freya. Stay here with her because you are my witness.”

Ingrid nods. He passes Freya into her arms and she mumbles: “Mama, Mama, Mommy,” into the crook of her neck.

“It’s alright, Freya. No need to worry. Your papa is going to take care of it, okay?” She kisses her daughter on her temple, holds her close and with a sneaky hand, covers her ears.

Sylvain takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. Let the thoughts swirl and slowly sort out.

The memories come back. He sees them – his father and Miklan. He sees himself and Miklan, standing in his room with a look of pure hatred on his brothers face and something cold at his throat.

He sees himself standing in the middle of an empty forest, crying and wishing for some to save him.

_I’m sorry, Miklan,_ _I’m sorry, Miklan, I’m sorry, Miklan, I’m sorry, Miklan, I’m sorry, Miklan, I’m sorry, Miklan-_

Sylvain opens his eyes. Looks at Ingrid, at his daughter and then over his shoulder. He approaches his father with slow steps.

_His father is getting closer. Approaches him. Sylvain wants to flinch, to get away. But instead of a harsh touch, a hand is put on his shoulder._

“ _You are my heir, Sylvain. Heir to House Gautier. Do not disappoint me.”_

_The threat is obvious._

Sylvain reaches for his collar, Lifts him up and throws him against the wall.

“Enough is enough, father.” Amber and amber are looking at each other. The grip on his father’s neck tightens and he hears him wheeze. His voice remains calm. Cold. Icy. “This is my last and final word to you.”

Ingrid hushes her daughter gently, rocking her softly back and forth.

“If you do not leave this mansion until this evening, I will not hesitate to send all our troops to find you and kill you.”

He got closer and let their noses were only an inch apart from each other. “Which words did you always love to say? _‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’_ Be a man and accept the things you deserve with all the shit you have caused.”

He lets him go, letting him fall on the floor. With a short thud, his father kisses the wood underneath them and Sylvain returns to Ingrid. “Let’s go.”

Her green eyes looked over his shoulder and the strange mix of fury and resentment let him halt. But the sign she gave of was clear and he was thankful.

Sylvain puts an arm around her waist. Silently, they leave the former quarters of his father.

* * *

Freya waits for them just as asked. She’s sitting in the chamber of her parents in her favorite spot, her father’s armchair, kicking her legs back and forth and looking up when they open the door. A scared look crosses her eyes. “Papa?”

He dismisses the maid who has fetched and kept an eye on her. She nods back, the old lady who has already served his grandfather, and leaves the room.

Freya has fallen asleep in her mother’s arms, the grip around Ingrid’s neck as tight as before and she lets out a deep sigh when he closes the door behind them. “I’m sorry, Johan. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything?”

“No.” She shakes her head, her ginger locks flying with her. “What is it, Papa?” She tilts her head and he recognizes the look of a quick mind inside her eyes. “Why am I here?”

“Something happened.” He crouches in front of the armchair and puts his hands on her shoulders. “I wanted to make sure that you’re okay.”

“I am.” She nods, eagerly, worried, and she switches her focus from him to Ingrid and back. She leans forward, takes a hold of his tunic and looks at him with fear in her eyes. “Did thing happen?”

“Your…”

Sylvain sighs. He listens to the sounds of the cushion sinking underneath Ingrid’s combined weight with their daughter, to her quiet mumbles and soft praise. “Your grandpa did something today.”

“Oh.” She folds her fingers together. “Was it something bad?”

“It was. It was something super bad.” He reaches out his hand for her and without a moment of hesitation, Johanna grabs them. Such small hands that reside in his own and Sylvain has rarely been so assured in a decision he made. “Your grandpa will go. He will never come back. I’m sorry you couldn’t say goodbye.”

She looks at him. When Sylvain sneaks over his shoulders, he saw Ingrid’s body leaning against the couch, eyes surely closed and singing a soft lullaby for his angel on her lap.

“Are you mad at me?”

She shakes her head – and Sylvain lets out a sigh of relief. “No.”

The confusion was evident. Without any more words, she wraps her arms around his neck and he nuzzled her hair. Ginger, a trademark of House Gautier.

He holds his daughter close and smiles.

* * *

His father sticks to the warning – at the same evening, after all four of them have taken a long afternoon nap and Ingrid takes care of their daughters by visiting the kitchen to make sure that they get something to eat, he checks the quarters and realizes that his father is nowhere to be seen. He took his furcoat and best clothes with him.

Upon the realization, he lets his shoulders sink and closes the door. He aims for the kitchens, crosses the hallways and spots his family sitting together around a small table, both their daughters eating with so much fervor.

He joins them. Johanna snuggles into his side while Freya sits on her mother’s lap.

For the first time in a long period, he feels at peace.

* * *

One year later, their third one is born with the hair and jaw of her mother and two green orbs looking at him in curiosity. She carries the name of Marie Faith Gautier like a champ and she was the third one to snatch his heart away by just looking at him with her soft eyes.

Both Johanna and Freya grow up – they easily adapt to their situation as older sisters, especially Johanna who dotes on her youngest. Right after the birth, she has been allowed to hold the newborn baby in her arms and rocks her gently back and forth, humming the tune she has learned from her mother and her aunts. Freya has touched the hand of her sister and smiled.

He hears no news from his father. Not even one peep. He has informed all the heads of the other territory and received countless letters and visitors. Inquiring how he has been faring, holding up, how he feels. He shakes them off, grins at them and tells them the same thing he has realized in the same night.

“I got my daughters to take care of. Can’t even think about not giving all my efforts.”

Marie joined this circle and he leaned over to Ingrid’s ear. She smiles at him and he reciprocated.

“I love you.”

* * *

Sylvain has always been blessed with so many ladies around him. Back in the academy, Sylvain has looked at all the different ladies - Manuela, Lady Rhea, Hilda, the professor. 

But to realize that he is the father of a fourth daughter now makes him speechless. Eight years lie between Johanna and Celica Lux Gautier.

“Maybe it is simply my fate to be surrounded by beautiful women?” And he winks at Ingrid.

She rolls her eyes and grabs his hand. She squeezes. He squeezes back.

The once remaining void in his heart has been replaced by laughs and hugs and kisses. Four young girls who look at him like he is their world. 

In another life, he would have given an arm and a leg for it. For someone who truly cares about him. It wasn’t the way he once has thought that it’d pass.

But he is really content with that.

* * *

Five years after the final confrontation with his father, Sylvain steps out of the huge ballroom in castle Blaiddyd in Fhirdiad and takes a deep breath. The ethereal moon basks the entire gardens in a blanket of pure snow and white colors, glittering stars and a silver moonlight. The cold bites its way through his furs and he quickly stretches his arms over his head.

From behind him, he listens to the banters of his friends. To their children, speaking and playing with each other. Even in this moment, he spots Dimitri’s and Dedue’s daughters throwing snowballs at each other or Felix’s sons trying to bury each other in the snow.

He lets his eyes wander and catches the sight of his oldest daughter sitting on a bench, kicking her legs back and forth even after growing so much taller, and watching how her best friends, the oldest children of Felix and Dimtri, are playing knight and bandit with each other.

He senses that something is amiss.

“Johanna?”

A shriek leaves her lips and green eyes look at him in shock and confusion. “Father. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Everything alright?” He takes a seat right next to her, looks at the children playing with each other. “It’s rare to see you outside of the playing.” He blinks shortly and fakes a sniffle. “My girl is growing up so quickly-”

“Father, I’m only ten.” She begins to pout and he lifts his arms in mock surrender. “I’m not that old-”

“I remember as if it were yesterday. You were just a baby and you had so much fun-”

“No, stop it!” She presses her hands against his mouth, tries to stare him into the ground with her piercing look and only leaves him be when he lifts his arms against, mumbling a “I’m shorry,” behind the pressure of her hands on his mouth.

She looks away and regains her seat right next to him.

“Hey, you wanna tell me what’s wrong?” He leans forward, trying to catch her eyes. “Did something happen?”

She looks at him, kicks her legs a little bit harder and lets her shoulders sink. “Can I ask you something?” With a quick whip of her head, she looks forward, avoids his gaze. “You have to promise me not to laugh.”

“Oh come on, I laugh at many things. But never at you.” He continues with his loving gesture.

He opens his mouth, bringing back a sentence so that she can laugh. But her green eyes stared a hole into the white snow. “Are you disappointed in me, father?”

“ _You are nothing but a disappointment.”_

"What are you talking-"

He lets this question sink in. Of course Johanna is a bright child and she often poses questions that surpass the mind of a ten year old girl.

But he has the feeling that these words keep so much more than a question in their meaning.

“Why do you think you’re a disappointment, Johanna? There has to be a reason.” Amber and green, father and daughter.

She looks forward. Doesn’t reply. Until she speaks in a voice so small and vulnerable that his instinct of tucking her under his chin becomes nearly unbearable. “Is it bad if I don’t have a crest?”

History truly likes to repeat itself.

He bites his lip, clenching his left hand into a fist and hiding it in his lap. “Why do you think that?”

She huffs and her breath leaves her mouth in a white cloud. “Elias has one, Sophie does, just like Liam, Celio, Albert, Kieron and Elise do. All of them bear one and I don’t.”

“Johanna.” He takes his arm away, leans forward and looks into her young face. “Why do you worry so much about it?”

She blushes, embarrasment and shame creeping onto her features and he was one step short of just grabbing the Lance of Ruin and tearing this world apart. “I’ve heard someone talk about it. They said that not bearing a crest means that you are not a full fledged noble and that it brings shame to your family.”

She looks away, avoids his gaze. “I’m sorry-”

“Johanna. Listen to me.”

His voice grows cold. It starts to snow and the white flocks are gathering on his daughter’s ginger hair. From afar, he listens how Annette calls out her sons with two bickering boys answering and relenting when their father steps out.

Moments pass. His tongue is tied into a tight knot. Even though he was known for his silver tongue, it was lead in his mouth, poisoning his throat, letting the words mingle on his lips.

“Have I ever told you that I once had an older brother?”

_He still feels the sensation of wet leafs on his skin, a sprained ankle from falling into a bottomless pit in the middle of nowhere. A knife at his throat, a hand clutching his neck and trying to squeeze all the air out of his lungs. Water trying to fill his lungs, cast away the life and air.  
_

_A kick into the back of his knees. The teeth of a large dog in his hand. The feeling of the wall behind him, pressing into his back and spine and venomous words being spat at him._

_The lance of ruin in his hands. A heroes relic, the weapon destined for him and not for his other._

“ _It’s like watching a bad dream come to life.”_

“No, you didn’t.” She blinked, curiosity obvious in her orbs. “Does that mean I have another uncle? Where is he?”

“He’s dead. Died long before you were born.” She sinks her eyes.

“Oh-”

“He and I weren’t on best terns. He was cast out by my father after my parents discovered that he bore no crest. I have one, he didn’t.”

“Does that mean that grandfather and grandmother didn’t like him because he had no crest?”

To hear it so plainly from his daughter’s mouth, from a ten-year old girl, nearly lets him laugh aloud. How simple it is. 

“Yes, that’s correct.” He puts his hand on her hair, stroking the ginger strands and smiling when her green orbs look at him in curiosity and patience. She waits for a moment, halted until she leans her head against his side. “They thought it was horrible that he bore no, thinking that it brought their family shame before I was born.” A second passes and he felt the same urge to do the same as he has done during his time in the academy. He nudges her side, tickles her on her left and a squeak escapes her. The heavy atmosphere vanishes.

“Something caught your eye?” A short peck on her temple. “Johanna. I don’t give one damn about it if you bear a crest or not. You and your sisters are the world to me and believe me: your mother doesn’t think differently. Both her and I have already suffered enough with all this crest stuff dictating our lives.”

He combed through her locks. “What we desire the most is that you and your sisters can live your life peacefully. No matter if you bear a crest or not, you are still our daughters. Our girls.” He tucks her head under his chin. “And if anyone tries to tell you you are not enough because you don’t bear one of these blasted crest, then tell them the same things I told you.”

There are times where he wonders how his life would have turned out if he hasn’t bore one. 

“Crests are good for times of hardships or war. But not for peace. So until anyone tries to start another war and I can’t imagine that Dimitri and Byleth would be too happy about it, they need to stuff it somewhere else.”

She laughes out loud, giggles hidden behind her hand her eyes are formed to crescent moons.

“You’re more than enough, Johanna. With crest or without, you’re your own person. And I’m proud of you.”

She waits. The winter breeze passes their cheeks and he pulls her closer to his side, gives her all the warmth he possesses.

Johanna looks up. Smiles at him. The look of confusion and shame is gone – but he knows it’s not gone entirely. These doubts are persistent, nagging at one’s heart and head and never relenting.

Hell, he still has doubts on his own.

But he will always make sure that all four of them - Johanna, Freya, Marie and Celica - know this.

They are enough. More than enough. And he is thankful for the life he has been given.

Bright green orbs look at him, sparkling like the snowflakes descending onto the earth beneath them and it’s a light that takes his breath away.

“Thank you, papa.”


End file.
